


Satisfactory Conclusions

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Pain, Difficult Pregnancy, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of canon character death, Mpreg, Omega Harold Finch, Omega Verse, Pining, Pregnant Harold Finch, Season/Series 03, slight Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Pregnancy has been hell on Harold. Now he needs a favor. John is, of course, more than willing to help.Both of them have to figure some things out first.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese, past Harold Finch/Original Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91





	Satisfactory Conclusions

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic where one of them gets pregnant with someone else's kid, then they get together anyway? Sure, why not.
> 
> Writing is very, very Difficult at the moment, for reasons that are probably pretty easy to guess, but I've had this lying around in my WIP folder 90-something percent done for a while, so. Have some fic?
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of a miscarriage scare, mentions of Carter's and Arthur Claypool's deaths, very slight A/B/O elements (Harold's an omega and went into heat at some point, John's an alpha, omegas can get pregnant later than people in our world can—that's pretty much it), John is not a fan of Root yet, and pregnancy's hitting Harold's body pretty hard

Pregnancy has been hell on Harold.

From the early days to now, John's been watching from the sidelines, helpless to do much more, to do anything that counts. Since that night Harold told him it was, _"Just morning sickness, Mr. Reese—though if I ever meet the person who insisted upon using the word 'morning' to describe this unrelenting nightmare, I might be reconsidering my feelings on committing acts of violence,"_ while camped out in the latrine, it's only gotten worse, even though that part's gone away.

John hasn't stopped worrying since. It's the only reason he didn't leave when Joss died. God, if something happened to Harold or his baby...

Just the thought stops him in his tracks, his hands clenching around the warmed heating pad in his grasp, making it crinkle. It's not an irrational fear—that's the worst part. Harold's already had one big scare. Everything turned out fine, but months later, John still isn't breathing easily over it.

At his computers, Harold murmurs something John can't quite hear, followed by a small chuckle. Probably talking to his baby again. John grins to himself. Sure enough, when he walks in, Harold has a hand on his bump, his pale skin vulnerable-looking against the dark blue fabric of his dress shirt. Harold runs his palm over the swell, moving back and forth across his lower belly as he speaks, with a smile that hits John like a bullet to the chest.

Jesus, Harold almost lost that. For the thousandth time, John vows to himself to do anything to protect the both of them. That includes making Harold more comfortable. Tea, a burger—already gone, John notices—and more. Anything.

"—but I'd need a _tad_ bit more data to draw a satisfactory conclusion there," Harold is saying to his baby, before John clears his throat. Harold jumps. "Oh!" he says, with a sheepish expression, and pushes his glasses back up his nose. "Hello again. I thought you were heading out."

"So I'm just your takeout delivery guy now, Finch?" John teases, delighting in the look Harold gives him. "I'm hurt." Before Harold can respond, John lets a sincere half-smile of his own show, and he holds up the heating pad, saying, "Brought you something else." The look of relief in Harold's blue eyes hits even harder than that damn private smile. "Warmed it up for you, too. Plugged it in while I was making your tea."

"You are too kind, Mr. Reese," Harold says, as John plugs it in and heads to Harold's side. Obediently, Harold leans forward, letting out a quiet, pained, "Mm," as he moves.

"You'll feel better in a second," John says, before sliding the heating pad into place. It's probably a lie. All those months of being sick gave way to Harold needing a cane right after he started showing, now a wheelchair. When his belly was still a tiny little thing, barely any bigger than his usual gut, it was just enough to hurt him, and it's only gotten worse since, especially with it being so damn cold outside. Harold's suffering, badly. John doubts a heating pad will do much good.

"You know," he adds, "that backrub offer still stands."

Harold opens his mouth, then seems to quickly reconsider his response. Not ready for that yet, then. Sure enough, Harold turns him down. "I know," Harold says. "Thank you," followed with a softer, "I'll be alright."

"Okay." Pushing Harold never works, no matter how much pain he's in. But it still makes John _ache_. He's been trying to help in every way he can, bringing Harold all the decadent and expensive treats he's craving, keeping him supplied with plenty of hot tea and healthy—or not-so-healthy—meals, splitting the various maintenance tasks Harold used to handle around the Library with Shaw without saying a word to Harold about why. But it doesn't seem to make a dent. Harold hurts, and John can't fix it.

Something else about Harold getting pregnant bothered John, bothers him still, nags at him like a toothache into the late hours of the night. John can't figure out what. Oh, sure, Harold being pregnant scares the shit out of him—of course it does. Pregnancy at Harold's age (god, just because omegas can get pregnant in their fifties or later doesn't mean they always _should_ , Harold, what the hell), alone, with their dangerous job and his injuries, with those Vigilance dicks and that Samaritan thing Harold and Root keep talking about in horrified tones looming somewhere around the corner?

But it's not just that. It's like a splinter under the skin, the knowledge that Harold's _pregnant_ , that there's a baby growing inside Harold, that somebody— _Somebody else_ , John's brain whispers, and he refuses to acknowledge it—fucked Harold and got him pregnant and left him to have this kid on his own...

John doesn't know who—of course he doesn't know. Like Harold would ever tell him that. But he's never going to forget the brief flashes of sadness in Harold's eyes when he asked, _"Do I need to go kick someone's ass for you?"_ or when Shaw asked, _"Seriously, Finch, do we need to go and choke a bitch?"_ while Harold was huddled in the safehouse hospital bed. Or the early morning phone calls, the ache of loneliness in Harold's voice as they've spent hours chatting about nothing or sleeping in each other's ears. The other parent is not in the picture.

They're lucky John and Shaw don't know who they are. They'd probably become the next number on The Machine's list if they did.

When Harold doesn't protest, just leans back against the heating pad without saying something like, _"I didn't hire you to be my nursemaid, Mr. Reese,"_ that kick of old worry jumpstarts in John's chest again. But once Harold's settled, John catches the fond look in Harold's eyes, directed at him. Accidentally, his gaze locks with Harold's, and a flare of something he's not sure he remembers the name for runs through him, flipping his heart, settling in his gut.

He smiles, soft and genuine, and Harold exhales audibly and sags against the heating pad, looking like something has clicked in his head. Like he's finally figured out that John cares about him.

For a genius, Harold can be a real idiot sometimes.

"I've lost count of the number of times I should have said 'thank you,' John," Harold says, with a light, brief touch to John's wrist that makes his skin tingle. "Please, forgive me for being so abominably rude." His hand goes to his belly again, running over it in gentle, loving strokes. It's so tender and sweet, so full of love that it's almost painful to see.

John can't look away.

Harold presses on, oblivious. "I've not been entirely myself lately, I'm afraid. You've been incredibly kind to me, and I haven't given that kindness the thanks it deserves. I'm so sorry."

John watches Harold's hand, and wonders if the kid's kicking, if Harold will ever let him feel it, if he deserves to feel it. "You've got a pretty good excuse growing in there," he says, when he finally figures out what to say, and he gestures toward Harold's belly. "You're getting pretty big."

As soon as he says it, he mentally kicks himself. Dammit, he should've said "they're." Telling someone their gut's getting big—even when they're pregnant, that's gotta be insulting, right? Shit. Sometimes he feels like he's forgotten how to talk to Harold since Harold got pregnant.

But instead of looking offended, Harold lights up, and, framing his rounded belly with his hands, showing it off, says, "Aren't I?"

John's never seen him look more adorable, or pleased. _You look good_ , he wants to say. Instead, he goes with, "It's a good sign. Growth. It's good. Means you're giving the kid a, uh, a nice little home. In there." He lets out an awkward chuckle. "It's good."

"It is," Harold says, letting his hands rest on his middle. John stares. "Everything seems to be progressing nicely now."

John manages a smile. "Good." Then, he meets Harold's gaze, and asks, "How are _you_ feeling, though—really?"

Harold's face falls, unsurprisingly, and Harold closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. "Oh, that is a question with many, _many_ answers, most of them unpleasant." His eyes flutter open again. "I do recognize that you and Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco have all been trying to help, however, and, rest assured, you _are_ helping, even though I have been terrible at expressing my gratitude of late. Thank you.

"Speaking of which..." Harold shifts in his seat, wincing until he gets situated. "I hate to impose on you further, but I...I need to ask you for a rather large favor. It's why I really called you back here this evening, actually."

Of course Harold didn't summon him just for tea and a snack. John suspected as much. Harold looks incredibly uncomfortable with whatever it is, but John doesn't hesitate to say, "Anything." There's nothing Harold might actually ask for that John wouldn't do for him. There's a lot that Harold would never ask of him that he would gladly do, even. It's exactly why Harold didn't ask John to help with his heat—John doesn't have to be told that to know it. He would've helped, even if he hadn't wanted to.

(God, he'd wanted to.)

"I was afraid you'd say that," Harold says, and John shrugs a shoulder, unashamed. "Okay. I..." Harold pauses, taking a deep breath that he releases slowly. "As you might have guessed, I am starting to have a considerable amount of difficulty getting around." He gestures toward his wheelchair. "My pregnancy is beginning to impede my ability to navigate my own home, even, despite the fact that I have taken great pains to make sure my residence is as accessible as possible, and I'm also starting to become quite concerned about what the outcome might be if I don't take some additional steps to try and protect my child from...certain parties."

"Decima," John guesses. "Vigilance."

"And our friends with the government, to name only a few," Harold says. "I doubt that my present condition is even the slightest deterrent for them—wouldn't you agree?"

John's stomach twists, churns. "I never took out anyone I knew was pregnant," he says, "but I heard a few stories." He grimaces, and wishes his imagination wasn't so vivid, that he couldn't picture what could happen so easily. "They weren't good."

"I don't imagine they were."

"And you're, uh..." God, it's hard to even _think_ it. "A lot of people would probably like to get rid of you right now."

"Indeed," Harold says. "But that's..." He draws in a deep breath. "A need for additional protection is not the only issue I am facing at the moment. I, well..."

Looking mortified, Harold tugs up one of his pants legs and thrusts out his foot, revealing a swollen ankle at the end of his pale and hairy calf, and—more startling for Harold—a lack of socks. John's heart cramps up. Not being able to put on socks because of a pregnancy would be a small thing for some, but for a man with as much pride as Harold, who cares so much about how he dresses, who values his independence so strongly, who must be in so much pain, it _hurts_ to see it.

Quietly, voice shaking a little, Harold says, "I need assistance with a great many things these days."

Keeping his voice soft and even, knowing that even the tiniest hint of emotion might be misinterpreted as pity, John says, "You need me to move in with you."

"Yes, please," Harold says, grimacing, letting his pants leg fall back down. It doesn't quite make it.

Automatic, John ducks down to help, _"The cuff should shiver on the shoe..."_ drifting through his head. He tugs everything into place, then gives Harold's shin a pat with a quiet, "There we go," before straightening up again.

Still cringing a little bit, Harold continues, saying, "I suspect I do. I thought about hiring somebody, but I would rather not share my residence with a stranger while I am expecting. Or Ms. Shaw, despite her medical expertise." A look of distaste flits across Harold's face, and, yeah, John understands. He likes Shaw, gets her, but he wouldn't want to be roommates with her and her attitude and her fridge full of ordnance, either, especially while pregnant and feeling like shit. Harold needs gentleness to go with the protection and help right now. Compassion. Somebody who knows him well. And while John's not sure he's the right man for the job, there's no one else he would trust with it.

It's a huge relief and an honor to be asked.

Then, Harold's expression softens. "You, however? I can't imagine that there is anyone out there who is more capable of providing assistance or protection than you, and I..." Harold takes a deep breath. "I trust you."

That knocks the air from John's lungs. Trust. Jesus. It's such a monumental thing—trust from the most paranoid and amazing person John knows, directed toward a guy like him. Harold trusts him? Why? Keeping his expression neutral, John says, "If you're sure," his voice even rougher than usual, threatening to break. He clears his throat. "I know you don't really want any of us knowing where you live."

"Whether I want it or not no longer matters," Harold says. "Making sure my baby stays safe and healthy has to take precedence over my desires. At the moment, that requires _me_ staying safe and healthy. Whether I remain comfortable in the process is of considerably less importance." He looks down at his belly, and John looks too, stares, entranced, as Harold's hand roams over the swell, his touch and his eyes full of love. "I would put myself and all my secrets on display for the entire world if it would ensure the welfare of my child. I would do anything for them."

"I know you would."

Harold glances up at him, his eyes filled with emotion. When Harold had his scare, he confided to John that he'd _"never cared all that much"_ about whether or not he ever had kids, until he found himself pregnant at _"way too old for this sort of thing."_ Now that he is having one, John has no doubt he'd do anything for his baby. But there's a whole lot of "anything" he could have to do.

That's where John comes in: he will stand in the way of all that "anything," and will shield Harold and his baby from it with his life.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," John says.

"Hopefully not," Harold says, and after another deep breath, he regains some of his usual composure. "So, if it isn't too much trouble, I would greatly appreciate further assistance from you. Will you stay with me for the next few months, please? You won't be there to clean my residence or cook for me or anything like that, and I don't expect you to stay for long after the birth. Just..."

"I'd be happy to do all of it."

Harold scowls. "I can raise this child on my own, Mr. Reese," he says, sharp and defensive. "I'm _going to_ do it on my own."

John almost says, _You don't have to._ He bites it back just in time, and says instead, gently, "Lucky kid," and, "You're gonna be a damn good father."

Harold seems caught off guard by that. He stares at John, mouth hanging slightly open, before managing a quiet, "Oh," and a shaken, "Thank you," like the wind's been knocked out of the sails of his ire.

Then, hoping to lighten Harold's mood a little, John adds, "Besides, moving in with a billionaire? Sounds like such a hardship," with a small grin.

"Moving in with a cranky and pregnant billionaire," Harold corrects, still sounding rattled, collecting himself. "I'm not an easy man to live with."

No, what's not easy is worrying that something will happen to Harold while he's at home alone and John can't find him. It's been one of John's biggest fears for a while now, and it's only gotten worse since Harold got pregnant. All the things that could go wrong—god, so many things that aren't even related to their crazy life. Just a fall, Harold slipping in the shower, or tripping over something, or his bad hip giving out when he's not in the chair. Under normal circumstances, a mundane injury could be devastating. While pregnant? _Jesus_.

Or some of those things John's read about in the books he's been sneaking out of the Library, and on the internet. Illnesses with long, terrifying names and even more terrifying consequences. Pregnancy is dangerous, a huge risk even for someone healthy and young. Harold is neither. Just being pregnant could kill him. And if he loses Harold...

No. Fuck whatever it'll do to him. What about Harold? What if something happens to Harold's baby—what will that do to Harold? John can't help thinking of that day Harold had his scare, Harold looking so scared and small in his thin undershirt, both hands pressed hard to his cramping belly as he waited for bad news and then didn't get it. The way Harold leaned against him, even let John stay with him, let John _hold_ him. The way he sobbed with relief when the doc found the baby's tiny, flickering heartbeat, so fast and, according to the doctor, healthy on that black and white screen. Everything turned out okay then. What if it doesn't next time?

But if John's there, maybe he can keep Harold and the baby safe. John is more than willing to deal with any bad moods Harold might throw at him for that—and Harold never has been that bad anyway.

The world can't lose Harold. _He_ can't lose Harold. And that means Harold cannot lose his baby.

"Considering how many times you've had to put up with me when I've been cranky and shot?" John says. "It's only fair that I return the favor and become the punching bag sometime."

"Mm, you're underestimating just how ornery I get when the little eldritch horror growing inside me hasn't received adequate offerings of bacon cheeseburgers or ice cream." John can't help chuckling—god, Harold is such a nerd. It's _adorable_. "You think Bear is demanding? You've yet to truly get to know my unborn child. Sometimes I wonder if I'm carrying a small human or something from a horror movie." Harold says it so fondly it hurts, and cracks another increasingly rare smile, then lets out the tiniest huff of a laugh. "But you do have a point. I—oh. Goodness." His wandering hand freezes on his belly, eyes widening, and John immediately goes on alert, his hands going to Harold's shoulders.

"You okay?"

"Yes, yes, fine," Harold replies, though he looks startled—but not pained, which eases some of the fear seizing John's chest. "There's just...a lot more kicking just started happening, and I'm not quite used to the sensation yet." Harold lets out another small laugh. "I don't think the creature approves of allusions to their true nature."

Still, John can't bring himself to pull his hands away. Harold feels so small in his grip, so precious. "Does it hurt?"

"It's _bizarre_ ," Harold replies. "Pregnancy is easily one of the weirdest things I've ever experienced. Goodness."

"It does seem pretty weird."

"Oh, it absolutely is," Harold says. Then, in a more reassuring tone, he adds, "But the kicking's not painful yet, no. I have heard that it gets more uncomfortable in the later months, but I still have a while to go." He reaches up and pats one of John's hands, and more of the knots in John's heart come untied. "A lot of aspects of this pregnancy are painful, yes, but this is not one of them. I somewhat enjoy these internal dance parties, actually, when they aren't utterly unnerving." With another of those tiny, fleeting smiles, he adds, "I'm fine, John. I promise."

John exhales, relieved, and he lightly squeezes Harold's shoulders before he finally manages to let go. "Good. That's good."

With Harold looking the closest he's been to comfortable in months, it's easier to see Harold as someone carrying a kid, not a beloved friend who's sick and suffering. He still looks exhausted, but his skin's not so pallid anymore, his shirt's making his eyes look an unreal shade of blue, and he's cute with a baby bump—beautiful, even. Harold's belly has been somewhat plump for as long as John's known him, but now it's _round_ , full of the precious little life growing inside it, getting bigger every day. There's something remarkable about Harold's belly, Harold's body now that it's like this, working overtime to bring someone into the world. Some quality that has John more in awe of him than before.

He figured out early on that there was something wonderful about Harold. This just proves it. Harold is _growing a person_. Sure, it's basic omega biology, Harold would probably say, but it still takes John's breath away. On top of all the other brilliant things Harold's done, a new human being is taking shape inside him, growing and moving and becoming somebody. It's incredible. _He's_ incredible, a total badass. Even if John were an omega, he's not sure he could pull this off. But Harold can. Of course Harold can. He's amazing.

So is his baby. The baby is a bright spot in the middle of all the violence and anger and blood and loss, and John loves them already, on a fierce, primal level that's hard for him to understand or explain.

This is _Harold's_ baby. Of course John loves them. How could he not?

He wants to touch Harold's belly, and has for a while. He's never understood people wanting to touch some pregnant person's gut before. It's always seemed weird, invasive. Since Harold got pregnant, he thinks he gets it—the yearning to get close to something so new and fragile and innocent. There's not much innocence in the life they live. He wants to rub Harold's belly and feel the kicking inside, wants Harold's kid to know that someone other than their dad wants them to exist.

It must show on his face, because, after a moment, Harold slides his hand out of the way, resting it on the top of his belly, and says, "She's very active tonight. Would you like to feel her kick?"

 _She_. John's eyes widen. Shit. Something about that makes it seem more real somehow. There's a _kid_ in there, not just a lump in Harold's gut. A baby. He knew that, of course, but...a little girl. A daughter. "She?"

"Mm. I just found out at the doctor's this morning," Harold says, and smiles softly at his belly. "A baby girl. Perfectly healthy—according to genetic testing, anyway. I wasn't hoping, exactly, but I thought...it's difficult to explain. But I just...I don't know, I had this feeling that I was carrying a girl. I never put much stock in such things before when I heard about them, thought it was all nonsense. But I was right."

John sinks to his knees, and he starts to reach for Harold's belly, but pauses. He'll touch Harold's arms, Harold's back, even tap or pat Harold's belly when there isn't a baby in there. Now that there is, though, it's _different_. And it's hard to believe he has permission, that he deserves it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Harold smiles. "Go ahead, John. Wait—here, let me..." Harold takes his hand, and positions it low on his belly. "There we go. She likes this spot. Now wait just a second..."

The curve fills John's palm, overflowing, yet it somehow looks so small beneath his large hand. He can feel the warmth of it against his skin through the soft cotton of Harold's shirt. For a second, he's grateful Harold ditched the vests when his belly started growing, because he can see it and feel it so easily. Then, something thumps against his hand, just the faintest kick, and nothing else matters anymore.

"Did you feel that?" Harold asks. All John can do is nod against the sudden clenching in his throat.

It happens again, a series of fluttering movements and tiny thumps beneath his palm, and John's chest goes tight. He grins so wide it hurts. Hearing that Harold was having a girl might have made it seem realer, but this cements it. There's someone in there.

"Hey there, kid," John says, soft and sweet, leaning in closer and rubbing his hand across Harold's belly. The baby kicks some more, and, somehow, John's face-splitting grin goes even wider. His voice slipping into baby talk, he speaks again, saying, "Hi, baby. Hi. I'm John. I'm your dada's friend. How you doing in there? I'm really looking forward to meeting you in a few months. I—"

Harold's breath catches. John glances up, asking, "You okay?"

"Yes. I just..." Harold's eyes shine with emotion—sadness, pain, something else. "No one..." He swallows visibly. "Oh, goodness. No one else has...no one else _cares_."

No one? John knew that the other parent wasn't involved, yeah, and that Harold doesn't really have anyone but his team, but it still doesn't make sense when John hears it out loud. It's something so fundamentally impossible that John can't comprehend it. How could no one else care about this? Harold's going through hell to bring this kid into the world. How is it possible that he and Shaw—and maybe Root, if John's feeling generous, and probably Lionel—are the only other people who care? It's _Harold_. Everyone should care. "Harold?"

Harold lets out a helpless little sound. "You know, I can count on one hand the number of people who aren't medical professionals who have congratulated me sincerely on my pregnancy, apart from you—five other people! And two of them are dead." He holds up a hand and counts out each finger as he names them. "Detective Carter and Arthur, before they—" His voice catches. "—just before they passed; Detective Fusco; Will; and, of all people, Mr. Tao."

Jesus. But what about...Unable to help himself, John finally asks the question that's been at the back of his mind for months. "And the other parent?"

"It was..." Harold pauses for a moment, muttering, "Oh good grief," under his breath and tugging a neatly-folded white handkerchief from his pocket, then wiping his eyes. "It was...a business transaction," he says, his distaste obvious, "with predictable yet somewhat surprising repercussions. I have no emotional attachment to them, nor them to this child or to me. But..." He wipes his eyes again, and makes a frustrated sound. "God, the only people who have touched my abdomen are doctors and nurses."

"I wanted to." John puts his other hand on it, too, and makes a silent vow to touch Harold's belly every day, if Harold will let him, to hold it and rub it and everything else he can get away with. The baby kicks again, and his heart twists. He can't imagine anyone who's ever met Harold not caring about him or the baby—god, he cares so much he feels like it's going to kill him. "But you're a really private person. Didn't think you'd appreciate people pawing at you like that."

"I wouldn't have," Harold admits. "But I—oh, god _dammit_ , these wretched _hormones_." Harold swipes at his dampening eyes again with obvious irritation. John forces himself not to react to the unusually vehement swear, nor to give in to the impulse to pull Harold into his arms and hold him close and safe, while Harold resumes talking. "I knew when I learned of my condition that it was terribly unwise for me to continue this pregnancy, that I would be mostly alone, but I just..."

"You wanted her."

" _Desperately_. And I..." Then, voice smaller than John's ever heard it, Harold says, "I didn't expect it to be this hard. To..." He swallows. "To hurt so much, in so many ways, not all of them physical."

John can only imagine—the chronic pain from before made worse by the big gut and everything else. The undignified symptoms John's read about and seen. The loneliness, even though Harold's lugging a second person around inside him now, that's had him calling John at ungodly hours of the night so many times. The fear—god, he must be so scared. John sure would be. It hurts John to know someone he cares about is hurting so much. That it's _Harold_ is even worse. Harold is special, and Harold has been through enough.

He can't take Harold's pain. But he _can_ keep trying to keep the loneliness at bay. "Well, you're not alone," he says. "Okay? You've got me, and Shaw—"

Harold, to John's surprise, scoffs at that. "Ms. Shaw," he says, voice dripping in bitterness, "has been a significant help, yes, but she has also made it abundantly clear that she believes that I am making a terrible mistake—as has Ms. Groves. Though I suspect the latter is mostly afraid of what is to come in other areas of our lives, rather than truly judgmental." John opens his mouth to protest, to defend Harold, to say that Shaw is scared shitless for him, that he doesn't give a flying _fuck_ what Root thinks or why, but before he can speak, Harold adds, softly, "I'm not entirely sure I disagree with them."

"I do," John says, firmly. "I think what you're doing is incredible, and if anyone can figure out a way to make it work, it's you." Harold looks at him with huge, damp eyes. "Anyone who can't see that?" John gives him a small smile. "They're not looking hard enough."

It dawns on John then, finally, why Harold's pregnancy's been bothering him so much—why it being someone else's kid has been bothering him. What that all-consuming feeling is that he gets whenever he just _thinks_ about Harold, the one that started long before Harold got pregnant. It's taken him a little bit to place it, to remember what it is and make sense of it. Like Harold, he can be a real idiot sometimes, too.

He moves a hand over Harold's. "And you won't be doing it alone." Harold's breath hitches, and John lightly squeezes Harold's fingers. "I promise. You are not alone, okay? You don't have to raise her on your own. I will be there for you and for this little girl for as long as I'm around, and there is _nothing_ that I won't do for both of you."

He moves his hand to Harold's cheek, and Harold sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath. Harold's skin is so soft—too soft for the roughness of John's palm, for callused fingers that have drawn too many people's blood, but Harold leans slightly into his touch anyway. "I'm here," John says, looking into Harold's eyes, hoping to tell him everything that he doesn't have the words for but Harold probably does. He traces his thumb over Harold's lips. "And I care." Then, because it feels right, he adds, "Always."

"John." It comes out like a gasp, a plea, Harold's breath brushing soft and hot and fleeting over the pad of John's thumb. He slips a hand around the back of John's neck, cradles John's head in his hand. "Please don't toy with me right now," he says, barely over a whisper, making John's heart clench painfully. "I can't...my emotions, my mental facilities...I am deeply, deeply compromised. Please..."

"I'm not toying with you," John says. "I'm..." It's so hard to add, "in love with you, I think," but he does it anyway, and gives Harold a wry smile. "Took me a while to figure it out, but I finally did it." Then, he leans forward, his heart pounding. "I'm about to do something. Feel free to poke me in the eyes like I showed you or something if it's not what you want, okay?"

Clever as always, Harold's gaze goes briefly to John's lips, and Harold nods.

John kisses him.

For a moment, Harold doesn't react. He sits frozen and silent, long enough for John to start to panic, to think he's made a terrible mistake, that Harold _is_ going to jab him in the eyes or punch him in the gut or something, even though that's not how Harold operates. Then, with a helpless little sound, Harold takes over, drawing John in and kissing back hard, all raw and frantic desperation poured into something it's taken way too damn long for them to get to. John lets Harold lead, with brief, fleeting thoughts of Harold's neck that soon turn into not wanting Harold to stop because, god, Harold's _good_ at this.

John tries to tell him everything he feels through his actions, tries to speak without words, giving as good as he gets, almost as good as Harold deserves, but Harold always has been more eloquent than him. Even in this, it seems. His mouth is hot and brilliant, and he uses it with unwavering confidence, kissing John until his lips are throbbing and his breath is faltering and the entire world is consumed with Harold.

Like that's somehow different from John's usual reality. Like Harold isn't the axis his world has spun around ever since the man said, _"You need a purpose,"_ just a little bit before John was ready to hear it. John adores him, loves him so fiercely and deeply it's agony, and he's never going to be able to show it as much as he'd like. Doesn't mean he won't try, though. Every day, he's going to try.

Harold breaks away, panting heavily, his glasses askew, his lips swollen and red. "Goodness," he says, blinking, comically dazed, and John can't even manage a laugh, because he knows that feeling. "Oh my goodness."

"Yeah," John says. "Yeah." He can't help but press another kiss to that wet, red mouth, just a brief touch of lips that makes Harold smile, before straightening Harold's crooked glasses. Then he takes hold of one of Harold's hands and laces their fingers together. The other stays on Harold's belly, joined by Harold's, over the shifting, kicking baby. This whole thing feels like winning something, something big and significant and breathtaking. He feels good inside, full of electric excitement that borders on giddiness—god, when was the last time he got something he wanted as much as this?

Letting some of that joy show, he says, "Guess now you know I'm serious about moving in with you."

"Yes," Harold says, still looking stunned. "And I'm guessing your stay will be quite pleasurable for the both of us." Then, his face falls, and he glances briefly at his belly, looking uneasy—insecure, maybe. "Unless...well, I don't mean to be presumptuous, but..."

" _Presume_ all you want, Harold," John says, dropping his voice low and dirty, turning "presume" into something deliberately obscene. Harold's eyes get even bigger. With a sly smile, John kisses him again.


End file.
